


a tribute/love letter

by WhiteTrashHozier



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Death, Other, Tribute, day of a thousand eyes, good omens - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25076326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteTrashHozier/pseuds/WhiteTrashHozier
Summary: Intro: This was a request from to talk about the Good Omen boys. As is usual, I seemed to have let myself get ahead of myself, but it was all in honest earnest admiration.As Death says, “there are many men (anybody really) who have said it better or more succinct(ly)” than what I am to attempt.This is Death to Neil Gaiman.
Kudos: 1





	a tribute/love letter

Dreams are my brother’s work. 

You know my brother’s work well. 

But have you wrote Gods out of existence like me? 

Does your son know of me? Or will you leave that to my sister, Time? 

But what of me?

There are many men who have said it better or more succinct-certainly better than what I am about to attempt. 

My children fight. For they are all my children. Before they were Gods’, they were always mine.I have always been. And one day when I meet with God and the anger at being separated for so long is all that is left in the inky black. 

I will say, 

_‘I did your work.’_

_‘Please, forgive me.’_

_~_

As leaves shook in the London breeze under a gazebo at the end of the world-I felt what I had not felt since the Beginning; An apocalypse that was mine. 

_‘Unforgivable’_

**“Unforgivable.That’s what I am.”**

So when that damned demon got to it before me, I felt the abandonment imminent and on my tongue as ice gathered at my scythe. And I could not move. 

Then as the nightingales sang a treble tune for the two of you, Angel, you looked scared and momentarily confused. 

As if you could forget anything. Aziraphale, acting falsely against your nature, boy. Your holiness that had been forged from a quasi-devotion forged in your kind since before you could remember blinking. I was there beside them the day of a thousand eyes. You did it because That Was What Angels Do. You love my Beloved because there never was any other choice. 

You love him, before you, without a single demand. 

Was it the day they bombed that church as if everything was a penniless thing except your faith. That had always been well placed? 

There was bones that day, Aziraphale. I did not see your doubt in the ashes. I saw your compliance. Your punishment is God can not take that away come disease, famine, or ruin. And God did not, will not smite you. 

Don’t you think it strange? 

If you can pretend to forget him. There is not a thing you can do for that splinter in your heart now. 

What are you going to do when you are not saving the world? 

Crowley. O’ where does your fear sleep at night? For it is not with me. Or my brother. Or my sister. Though she says ‘hello’. Nor is it with my lover in prayer. Your wordless lips in tangled sheets have given far more service to an angel than ever to your God that left you. Now, he too might leave you? If I could shout at you I would. My jaw twitches. I remain silent. 

Death is only good for endings. 

~

I switch off the television. Waiting for the things in the walls to stop. I remember what I am king of again. I consider dinner. 

I am saying it was good. What you did was good. The work was good.

And I will tell him hello from you. 

For the days he forgot you, I promise you I sent Dream, Neil. You know my own brother better than I though occasionally they too answer my calls. Though the man wanted me. I ignored his voicemails. I hope you too, can forgive me for that. 

My sister said it was a loan. I can only imagine what the price will be.

Perhaps the cheap red lingerie she always has threatened to put me in. 

To remember the songs; 

I needed him to not forget even for a second what you had done with all that well-placed faith. I am a selfish thing Mr. Gaiman. I may have cheated (I am Death. I’m allowed) and shown him the gazebo at the end of the world. For Death is only good for endings after all and it was Time. He of course had commentary, as you very well know our Terry would have, but you know what was not there? 

Confusion. Not an ounce of anger. 

I let him hold my scythe.

What utter delight that man had at holding me at last. I smiled as I had not smiled for five thousand and one lifetimes. 

Teeth you know are the only bones that show.

Maybe, I was bored.

Or….it was your service Mister Gaiman. 

To your small gods, your American gods, mischievous gods, your goddess wife, changeling child, to the old & new, to Aziraphale & Crowley, to Sir Terry Pratchett,

To memory and to your grief, I raise a glass. 

To all your tomorrows, 

Death 

P.S. I thoroughly enjoyed the portrayal of ‘Death’ in the Sandman Chronicles. In particular, I am flattered you think I could have such an exquisite shape. The last time I tried Kohl was during Thutmose III’s going away party and I think I put it much too thick. 

Though your portrayal of incorrigible sass was practically well done. 


End file.
